


Wolftail

by Taliax



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hair Brushing, Haircuts, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Reunions, Zutara
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:34:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25868266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taliax/pseuds/Taliax
Summary: Zuko doesn't want to look like Ozai.  After he botches his own haircut, Katara has a unique solution.
Relationships: Katara/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 351





	Wolftail

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this back in November 2019 I think, so if you notice a drastic change in writing quality i’m sorry lol. Just figured I should clean it out of my drafts
> 
> This is the second fic i've written where Katara gives someone a haircut. Which isn't that many but it is weird that it happened twice
> 
> Zuko is 20 and Katara is 18 in this by the way

His fingers tremble against the hilt of his dagger. His other hand is braced against the sink, where long black strands stand out starkly against the white marble. He should turn the faucet, wash them down the drain, like he wishes he could wash away this impulsive, rash, _stupid_ decision.

At least Uncle is away, visiting the Southern Water Tribe on the Fire Nation’s behalf. If he were here, he would know exactly why Zuko had taken the knife to his long hair. Of course, it won’t grow back fast enough to hide. Agni, it won’t grow back fast enough for him to wear his _crown._ How is he supposed to attend the council meeting tomorrow? What will his advisors think when they see his hair chopped short and uneven?

He knows what they’ll think. He looks like—he looks like _Azula,_ in those moments before their last Agni Kai.

He looks _mad._

A mirthless laugh escapes his lips as he looks up to meet his reflection.

“Better mad than…”

He watches his face break, and looks away from his own weakness.

_Better mad than a copy of my father._

His reflection is his own. The resemblance to Ozai can never quite be erased—it’s chiseled into his nose, his chin, the flecks of brown in his gold eyes. But with his hair cropped above his shoulders again, it’s less overwhelming.

He peels his fingers from the sink to brush his scar. That should have been enough of a mark to separate himself from his father. 

But when Azula’s wide eyes looked at him...

“This was stupid. I’m not… I’m not Ozai,” he whispers. 

He knows this. He’s been running the Fire Nation for four years now. His people respect him. The world respects him.

But he can’t forget the look in his sister’s eyes yesterday, when she took her first steps outside the rehabilitation center. When she saw him in his full Fire Lord regalia for the first time, his crown secured tightly in his topknot.

When she broke for just a moment, and thought he was her father.

Water drips from his eyes into the sink, trailing down to wet the clumps of cut hair clogging the drain. He’s being stupid. For all he knows, Azula said that just to get under his skin. She’s said worse things when he’s visited her in the center. But he really thought she was ready. The doctors said she wasn’t seeing things anymore…

But even if her moment of weakness was a hallucination, the reflected glimpses Zuko caught from his right eye weren’t. At least, he’s fairly sure.

He’ll know if he keeps seeing them now, he supposes.

He’s still trying to gather the strength to clean the sink—and the floor; he had more hair than he’d realized—when a knock at the bedroom door startles him. An undignified, strangled sound escapes his throat.

“Go away!” He shouts at whoever it is. He’d specifically asked his attendants not to disturb him when he turned in early for the night. An early rest was supposed to calm his irrational thoughts. 

Instead, he’d caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror, and the dagger had been in his hand faster than he could think.

And now he’s here, hunched over the sink, shame and weakness etched into the sharp curve of his shoulders. Some of his cut hair clings to the fabric of his nightrobe, settles in his hood. No one should see the Fire Lord like this.

“Hey, I didn’t come all the way from the South Pole just to get yelled at,” an unmistakable voice filters through the thick wooden door. His eyes widen, snapping up to meet his reflection. 

Maybe he really is going crazy. There’s no _way_.

More to confirm his sanity than anything else, he rushes out of the bathroom, crosses the bedroom in a few long strides. Flings open the door before he can talk himself out of it, before he can imagine what she’ll think if she really _is_ there.

And there she is. Katara, standing taller than he remembers in a newer incarnation of her old blue tunic. Her long hair is braided down her back, and her lips are pursed in a narrow frown that softens at the sight of him.

“Zuko?” She speaks first, because he’s still too busy staring. Two years of letters are nothing compared to actually seeing her face. She’s always been beautiful, but now—

He winces. Now he remembers exactly how pathetic he looks.

“Are you… are you alright?” Her brows curve upwards in concern.

He’s not sure any amount of lying will convince her. If she can read his worries between this lines in his letters, she’s sure to see it in his disheveled appearance.

“What are you doing here?” He gasps out.

“Surprising my best friend, I thought,” she retorts before shaking her head. “Sorry. Uncle Iroh told me you’d want to see me, but if you don’t—”

“That’s not what I meant.” He shakes his head quickly, sending loose strands of hair fluttering to the ground. He’ll need to brush the chopped ends out if he doesn’t want to shed like Appa for the next few days. “I just… you didn’t tell me you were coming.”

She smirks in a way that’s very unfair to someone who’s already questioning his lucidity. 

“That’s what makes it a surprise, silly.”

“Right.” He rubs the back of his neck. Sheds some more. He knows she’s seen him worse—Agni, she’s seen him in his old half-bald _phoenix plume—_ but still he wishes he’d had time to prepare for her. Maybe it would have strengthened him long enough to weather that brief moment of weakness.

“You never answered my question, either,” she says quietly. Her hand reaches for his shoulder, brushing black strands from his sleeping robes, and he flushes at the contact. It’s been too long since he’s seen his friends if a simple touch like that feels foreign. 

(Foreign, and wonderful, and if she’s a hallucination, she sure is a detailed one.)

“I… what?” He blinks.

She sighs heavily. Whatever she was asking, that was apparently the wrong answer.

“I asked if you were alright, but I’m going to take that as a no. You’ve been holding out on me.”

Oh. He must have missed that while she she was brushing him off.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says anyway. He just might have lost all coherent thought when he met with Azula earlier today, or right before he took the dagger to his hair, or when he first saw Katara. Regardless, he doesn’t want her to worry.

She looks him up and down, an appraising expression on her face. It’s too late to stop her from worrying, then.

“I didn’t just wake you up, did I? Your hair is still damp.”

“I’ve been awake,” he grumbles, but feels grateful she only points out that his hair is _damp,_ not that it’s… frankly, a complete wreck.

“Well, if you’re not going to bed now… would it be alright if I come in?”

He isn’t used to the amount of hesitance in her voice. 

“Of course.” They’ve just been standing in his doorway, where anyone passing by could see. Not that many people would be passing by this time of night, in this wing of the palace. The only other visitor he would expect would be Uncle, and apparently he’s sent Katara in his place. Odd, but Zuko supposes he can hear about his trip over morning tea. 

(And he won’t complain about delaying his explanations for his hair a little longer.)

There’s nowhere to sit except on his bed. Maybe he should have thought that through, but _thinking things through_ is clearly impossible today. He perches on the edge of the mattress, nodding his head for her to do the same. She leaves a small gap between them. He knows that shouldn’t disappoint him, but it does all the same.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, running a hand through his too-short-just-right hair. “I’m really glad you’re here. Honest. I just haven’t been… it’s been a rough day,” he admits quietly. There’d never been much point in lying to her. “I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”

“Zuko,” she says quietly. Her hand rests on the soft duvet, fingers inching closer to his, but not touching. “It’s times like this when I _need_ to see you.”

“What? So you can heal me if I hurt myself?” He asks dryly. Come to think of it, the back of his neck stings. Maybe he did nick the skin there.

“No—I mean, I would, of course, but—spirits, I’m your _friend._ Do you really think I wouldn’t want to be here for you?”

She has a point. It would be an insult to her compassion to push her away now.

And he doesn’t want to. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Of course you didn’t.” She lets out a breath, a half-laugh, and slips her pinkie over his. The touch is so light it might be an accident, but it still grounds him.

She’s here. She’s _real._

“Azula thought I was Ozai,” he blurts out. His gaze tears away from their brushing fingers, to the fist clenched in his lap. “She was supposed to be released from the rehabilitation center today, and I swear she’s lucid now, and… it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” Her hand finally squeezes his. It’s like that one action draws out his tension, siphons it away. “You’re worried she’s right. That you look like your father.”

He flinches at hearing her say it out loud. She’s always been able to see right through him, but it’s still better than having to explain it himself.

“I don’t want to be _anything_ like him. I don’t want to keep looking over my shoulder every time I pass a mirror, thinking he’s—thinking he’s there.” He winces. 

Stupid. Pathetic. All the ways Ozai used to make him feel… apparently still _does_ make him feel. 

She just nods, though, as if that’s the most reasonable thing in the world.

“The haircut will help. It suits you better, anyway.”

He turns to stone when her fingers comb through the jagged ends. She must realize it, because she pulls away.

“Sorry. I just—saw some bits still stuck in there.” She blushes.

“I don’t mind,” he croaks out, throat suddenly dry. He clears it with a cough. “Actually, would you… would you mind fixing it up for me? I couldn’t see the back very well.” Not that he’d been really looking when he hacked it off. 

“I’d love to.” 

He feels like a little kid again, sitting cross-legged at the foot of his bed after providing Katara with the necessary supplies. Her bare feet swing down on either side of him, bracketing his shoulders.

“Hold still,” she says when he squirms, “or you’ll be getting a taste of stinky waterbender feet.” She wiggles her toes next to his face, and he laughs.

“Better than stinky earthbender feet.” 

He’ll never forget waking up with Toph’s feet in his face, demanding that he carry her on his back. It was what he deserved after burning her soles that one time, but she still _reeked._ He was half convinced she smeared them with mud beforehand just to mess with him.

Katara goes silent. Was his joke that bad? Or maybe she’s just realizing how much of a lost cause his hair is. 

“Katara?” He asks.

“Sorry.” She starts brushing out his hair. Each stroke sweeps away some of the worries crowding his mind. “I was just thinking… it’s been a while since I heard you laugh.”

It’s been a while since he _has_ laughed. Katara and his friends always brought out the best in him.

His eyes slide shut as she combs away the snipped remnants. He shouldn’t get used to this. She’s just doing him a favor, that’s all.

(Even if she _did_ want to touch his hair more often, she can’t. She won’t be staying in the Fire Nation long.)

(She never does.)

Scissors snip in his blind spot, right next to his bad ear. He suppresses a flinch. The one nice thing about keeping long hair was that he didn’t need anything sharp near the scarred half of his face.

“Your hair is so _soft,”_ Katara says enviously. “Is there some kind of secret washing regimen for Fire Lords?”

“I just use whatever my attendants set out for me.” That probably sounds spoiled, doesn’t it? It’s not like the palace servants will allow him to go out with his hair unwashed.

Agni, even _they_ are going to kill him if Katara can’t get his hair under control.

“Well I’m stealing it.”

He grins at that, though he should be intimidated. It’s hard enough to resist touching Katara’s hair as it is. Any softer, and it’ll practically be a magnet pulling him towards her.

Bits of hair fall on his shoulders, litter the red towel spread beneath him. He’s surprised she’s found that much to cut. He doesn’t have a mirror right now, so he can’t check to see how it looks. He’ll just have to trust her.

Luckily, he’s still used to that.

“Thank you, Katara.”

“Don’t thank me just yet. I might still give you a warrior’s wolftail by accident.”

He smiles, picturing it. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. The looks on the council’s faces would be priceless.”

She laughs. “You could start a new trend. Bring Water Tribe fashion to the big city.”

He’d like to bring more of the Water Tribe here than just that. But he knows he can’t ask Katara to stay. He’d said it right all those years ago: she rises with the moon, and he rises with the sun. They share the sky for just long enough to catch glimpses of her, before she disappears back to the bottom of the world.

He’s spent too long in the theater scrolls again, if he’s waxing this poetic. Better turn his thoughts to more practical matters.

“Would a wolftail be able to hold up my crown?”

“Theoretically,” she says between snips. He doesn’t flinch at them anymore. “But, I mean… were you being serious?”

He blushes, suddenly unsure. After all, he’s not a Water Tribe warrior.

“If I’m allowed to,” he admits quietly. “I don’t know what the rules are, if it’s like a phoenix plume, or if I have to be judged worthy to—”

A loud _snip,_ and a chunk of his hair falls to the ground. She curses under her breath; it almost makes him laugh. She’d never been one to curse when they’d traveled together.

“I don’t think I have much of a choice. I cut this part too short; I’m not sure anything else will work now. I’m so sorry.”

He risks a glance over his shoulder. She’s biting her lip, glaring down at her scissors like they should glue his hair back together.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, Katara. You really couldn’t make it any worse.”

“I could’ve made you bald.”

This time he _does_ laugh. “Well, you didn’t. But even if you did, I wouldn’t be upset. No one could say I look like Ozai anymore.”

Her brow creases in pity. It’s not what he wanted—he’d been trying to reassure _her._

She reaches down to brush his remaining bangs away from his face. The touch shocks through his system like ice.

“You’re _nothing_ like him,” she says softly. “I wish I could make you see that.”

His lips won’t move to speak. Some incoherent noise might have passed through them, but Katara doesn’t point it out. She just combs his hair back, and removes the tail of her own braid to bind his hair at the back of his skull.

“Almost done.”

He has to face her for this last part, where she shears away the hair along the sides of his head, above his ears. It’s difficult to look anywhere besides her blue eyes. He tries to, though; he doesn’t want her to feel him staring.

“Is this weird?” She asks, her hands steady as she sends bits of hair fluttering down to his shoulders.

He almost shrugs before realizing it might mess her up. “Yujin—one of my attendants—usually cuts my hair for me. She’s great, but… I like this too,” he admits. “You’re very talented.”

“Thank you, but that’s not what I meant.” She smirks.

“Then—what did you mean?” His brow furrows.

“You’re kneeling.” Her eyes flicker down to his legs, which are tucked beneath him. “I just meant, since you’re the Fire Lord, you probably don’t do this much.”

“How else were you supposed to reach my head?”

She pulls the shears back and laughs. When her eyes open again, they’re soft as water.

“You haven’t changed. I didn’t think you had, from your letters, but it’s still good to see.”

“Thank you?”

“That _is_ a compliment, I promise.” She smiles, coming her fingers through the ends of his new wolftail. It feels thicker and stubbier than a phoenix plume, and a little itchy on the sides, where his hair is much shorter now.

Hasn’t he changed? He never felt like he was going this crazy before. But strangely… after sitting here with her, he finds some of his worries aren’t as loud. Maybe it’s that he can’t see long strands of black hanging in the corners of his vision. Maybe it’s some kind of waterbending healing she worked in while his eyes were shut. Regardless, a new energy fills him as he accepts her hand and rises to his feet.

“Come on. Let’s make sure you like the Water Tribe look. If not, we can always do you up like an Air Nomad.”

He winces. “I don’t think I could pull off a shaved head as well as Aang.”

“I’m pretty sure you could pull off anything,” she mutters.

“What was that?”

Her eyes widen, and he has to hide a smirk, even if he knows it’s not true. He sure didn’t pull off the shaved phoenix plume. But it’s still flattering that she thinks he could.

“Let’s just get you to a mirror.”

She drags him to the corner of his room, where a gold-rimmed standing mirror reflects their forms. Even trusting that she did a fine job, he finds himself afraid to look at his face. It took him years to be okay with seeing his reflection at all, to not flinch at the wrinkled red skin on his left side. Lately, it’s the unmarred side that causes more problems.

But he does look up. And he looks… nothing like he expected.

A wolftail lies closer to the back of the head, unlike how a phoenix plume would sprout from the middle. And this wolftail in particular is barely long enough to stay in Katara’s hair tie. His black hair sprouts up like a tiny circle of grass. The ridiculousness of it almost makes him laugh.

“You like it?” She asks when she catches him smiling.

“I love it.” His hair might look a little silly, but he’s not lying.

Now, instead of thinking of Ozai when he sees his reflection, he’ll think of her.

“Thank you so much, Katara.”

He folds her in a hug. By the time he worries about it being too much, she’s already squeezing him back, burying her face into the crook of his neck. The scent of her hair wafts up to him, salty and sweet. Why did she ever want to borrow his hair products? Hers feels soft as a turtleduck against his cheek.

“I’m always here for you, you know. Next time, ask me _before_ you go swinging your knife around, alright?”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says carefully, “but you’re not always here. And I don’t expect you to be. You have family, and friends, and obligations…”

“Zuko.” She tugs on the collar of his robe until he looks down at her. _“You’re_ one of my friends. So for now, get used to it.”

He blinks. His heart picks up a stuttering rhythm, one he hasn’t felt since the day he lay in the palace courtyard, pulsing with lightning.

“You—you’re staying?”

“I’ve already talked it over with Uncle. He said there are some rivers that have dried up, and I might be able to help divert water to towns that need it. Besides, the South Pole has so many waterbenders now, I was starting to feel redundant.”

She’s staying. At least for a little while, she’s _staying._

He hugs her again. He couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried.

“Looks like I was missed after all,” she laughs.

He smiles against the top of her head.

“Always.” 

XXX

The next morning, he arrives at the council meeting with a crown in his wolftail, and a waterbender’s palm in his hand.


End file.
